


In the Arms of the Woman I Love

by CuttingEdge



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blood, Character Death, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 23:35:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7594726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuttingEdge/pseuds/CuttingEdge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>BRONN: I've had an exciting life. I want my death to be boring. How do you want to go?<br/>JAIME: In the arms of the woman I love.<br/>BRONN: She want the same thing?</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Arms of the Woman I Love

The blood that came welling through his fingers was as red as the Lannister banners. Flowing like the waters of the Red Fork. Placidly; curving and bent. He clenched a hand tighter against the wound – the only hand that would do anything. Trying to stop the red river. A deep breath; air that seemed to burn his lungs. A thousand needles through his chest. He would have chuckled if he could breathe. _I will die like Aerys_ , he thought. _On the ground_. There would be more people to witness  _his_ death though – even if no one was watching him anymore. Perhaps the songs would even call it noble one day, if the right people lived to sing them.

He tried to turn – move – do anything; but every movement was another sword through his gut, pain welling up like a terrible nausea. A trickle of blood ran from his lips, lingered somewhere in the deep of his lungs. He tried to cough it up, but he could not find the strength. A pressure on his chest like a heavy blanket. Jaime Lannister had never been afraid of dying, and even as he lay there counting his breaths, an odd calm was over him. Hadn’t he always known that he would rather fall in battle, than die as an old man in a cold bed?

People said that when you were dying, life would flash before your eyes. Behind his eyelids, Jaime could see no more than flashing colours and blurred faces. Some of them he recognised, others were shapeless shadows. When he was younger he had expected to see moments like paintings brought to life; clear and vibrant. In his mind it had always been beautiful images of Cersei and himself at Casterly Rock – Tyrion as a babe reaching out for him – smiles and happiness. But those had been childish fantasies; these pictures were grey and fading. Smiles and sad expressions in even measure. There was Aerys somewhere – King Robert and Ned Stark. His brother, father, sister. Brienne of Tarth. _~~The Wench~~  – ~~the Beauty~~ – the Sapphire eyes_.

It felt like ages had passed when suddenly he felt a pressure on his shoulder that had not been there before; soft and warm. Something moved away the hand that had been resting over the river of blood. There had been no more strength in it to hold back the stream, however placid it might be. Was this how it felt to die? The hand that had no more purpose at the wound reached up, out, grabbing blindly – and found something. An arm? There was cold metal and somewhere beneath it, hot skin that would have burned his freezing fingertips. “ _Jaime_ ,” the voice filled his ears like honey overflowing its jar. “ _Jaime!_ ” insistent. Perhaps there were other words spoken as well; other voices in the distance. He heard none of them. If he could have tightened his grip any more, he would.

“ _Brienne,_ ” there was a sigh of breath left in him after all. _What are you doing here?_  he wanted to ask; the sigh didn’t last long enough. He could see her face if he opened his eyes. A ring of sunlight behind her head, eyes burning as bright a blue as the sea. Freckles mixing with spatters of blood. Her face lingered when he closed his eyes. It would likely be the last thing he ever saw; he figured it was better than anything he could have asked. “ _You shouldn’t be here,_ ” he said in place of all those thoughts. Words punctuated by a depthless cough. _You should be far away from me_.

There was a hand on his face; her fingers were not silk, but they left a trail of momentary heat. All that time ago she had left with Oathkeeper by her side; and he had not known if their paths would ever cross again, so he had said his own unfinished goodbyes. This was just another one of them; unfulfilled and uncovered. He had thought many thoughts of her since, but they had been meaningless. Just yet another childish fantasy of honourable knights and maidens and fierce warriors. He was too old to believe in the songs. _Oathkeeper and Oathbreaker_ , he thought. _It would never end well_.

He could feel her breath against his skin. Calm and steady like the arms that held him. _How do you want to go?_   He’d been asked that once. “ _I won’t let you die–-_ ” she said. _–-as well_. The last words were not spoken aloud, but they were written clearly on her face. His laugh was breathless. “ _You wouldn’t,_ ” no one could say that she was not a woman of her word, but not even oaths could stop a wound from bleeding. They both knew it as well as any. For a moment, her blue eyes were a storm. Calm melting away. There was more of the human, the girl, and less of the poised knight. She inclined her head, eyes on the ground rather than on him. He would have lifted it if his hand had not already been holding onto her. It somehow made it all the more difficult to die. Clinging to her, to life, for just a few more minutes. “ _Look at me,_ ” he said. Suddenly a desperate note in his voice that he hadn’t intended. And she did.

Her lips burned against his for just a moment. Careful, soft, sweet as summer; as fragile as the girl behind all that armour and knightly demeanour. _She would have made a much better knight than I ever was, had the world been different_ , he thought. Wished he had the time to tell her that. _And had the world been more different still, she could have been my Oathkeeper and I could have been her Goldenhand_. But the real world was not a song, and neither of them were gilded heroes. In her arms, he was no one but Jaime – not the Kingslayer, not Goldenhand the Just – and she was no one but Brienne. The woman he loved, no matter how much he tried to protest it.

The taste of her lips intertwining with the bitterness of blood lingered on his tongue, and her eyes was all that stayed with him when he closed his eyes. Everything else faded until it was all that was left. He would have smiled if he could. 


End file.
